Tarp No. 16 – ‘The Great Wall of China’ by Franz Kafka

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Who? Got to be FK, original paranoid android.


What? A half-dozen short stories selected for the Pocket Penguin collection. Aeroplane material, digested happily on an EasyJet to Sofia.


When? In typical Kafka-esque chronology, the title story was written in 1917, published in 1932, translated into English in 1933, and compiled by Penguin in this edition recently enough.


How? How else but through the old familiar Czech clamped jaw? Poor lad.


Why? Kafka is a given, at least for the moment. It would not have been a tragedy if he had managed to destroy his manuscripts as intended; the idea that we would have been robbed of a literary treasure equates exactly to our lack of mourning for the literatures we have already (hypothetically) been robbed of. Regardless, here he is, canonised; his portrait is met with ‘awww’s, ‘poor lad’s and all the rest. His repression lends him sympathy, even if the stories are burnished with the same boredom found in the bureaucracy he felt himself lost in. His feeling is of something almost-rounded, almost-complete, like his unfinished Amerika, and almost touching on the same quiet, dull-burning oppression of self I feel now and most days. Everyone finds a kindred spirit in Kafka – that is the assumption. But he will always remain the victim, and we will not always identify as such.


The Great Wall of China is available as a Pocket Penguin paperback, number 64.

26 March 2017

TARP No. 15 – ‘Selected Poems’ by Aleksandr Blok

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Who? Aleksandr Blok, foremost Symbolist poet of Russia’s ‘Silver Age’.


What? A short collection of his mystical, gypsy, woeful, drunk poetry.


When? 1900-1918. After that his enthusiasm for Communism, poetry and life dwindled quickly; he died in pain in 1921.


How? Through a well-constructed anthologising of his work, sewing the narrative of his progressing ideas, mounting his most famous pieces (incl. ‘The Twelve’, one of the most ‘important’ Russian poems of the twentieth century) on the intricate, intoxicated glory that preceded them.


Why? Blok is widely-renowned as the most influential Russian poet of his day, but does that make him worth reading? His importance for writers like Tsvetaeva, Mandelstam and Akhmatova is gargantuan; you could go out on  punt and say he was the greatest poet since Pushkin. And that seems to be how a lot of Blok-criticism is approached; his figure, even in its drunk, romantic way, is unfeasibly large. Whether the poems justify this is irrelevant; better, I think, to read them at arm’s-length, taking in the ecstasy as a modern reader, open to enjoyment. In these terms, Blok is lofty, musical, metaphysical. His voice speaks a little of the ‘holy fool’ archetype, especially in its drunkenness. It is poetry that makes you want to drink alone, read and approach dark thoughts. Perhaps a more pertinent question is: why would anyone want to drink and think?


Selected Poems is available as a Carcanet paperback in translation by Jon Stallworthy and Peter France.

14 March 2017

TARP No. 14 – ‘Fear of Music’ by David Stubbs

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Who? David Stubbs, Oxford-educated music journalist who sounds very much like he should present a sideline on BBC 6 Music. Perhaps with Stuart Maconie.


What? A short treatise on why people appreciate and pay exorbitant sums for modern art, but don’t like it when a ten-piece German psychedelic prog-jazz ensemble hit their guitars against anvils for twenty-five minutes, then await applause.


When? 2009, or Year One in the calendar of Our Lady Susan Boyle, grossly-overlooked by Stubbs.


How? Briskly, stomping through the history of experimental music in the past hundred years or so with a few swipes at the adjacent modern-art-gallery-industry along the way. Also with sweeping statements about art/music’s relationship to culture, which leave a few brief moments of collar-pulling.


Why? As an introduction to experimental music, highlighted by Stubbs’ exceptional knowledge of it and passion towards it, Fear of Music is an absolute success. His forming of the musical-historical narrative is fresh and clear, even if muddled by the odd fantastical speculation about race or class. His argument about the difference in reception between art and music is, I think, weak, except in his astute analysis of the industries’ relationship with money. However it may sound, the book is fun, genuinely fun. As fun as experimental music! Anybody? Guys? No?


Fear of Music is available as a lazily-formatted Zer0 Books paperback.

10 March 2017

TARP No. 13 – ‘This is Your Brain on Music’ by Daniel Levitin

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Who? Record producer, neuroscientist and music theorist Daniel Levitin, acquaintance to rock stars and scientific celebrities, anecdotalist, a true all-rounder.


What? A jolly, humane overview of the relationship between music and neuroscience, drawing on Levitin’s experience of the musical and scientific communities. He did everything and met everyone, so it seems.


When? 2006. I  would have been strutting around my university campus at the time, posturing as a musician.


How? In nine comprehensive chapters dealing notion-by-notion with the musical and neurological implications of pitch, rhythm, memory, anticipation, categorisation, emotion, expertise, preference and origins, all dealt with clarity, deftness, absolute accessibility.


Why? Reading This is Your Brain on Music, I get the sense that this book could have been written by no one else but Levitin; he is at once an expert neuroscientist and a man with a deep, direct connection to music history and the contemporary music industry. His openness towards music complements his willingness to confront established scientific principles. His ability to introduce both subjects without patronisation is practically flawless. Although his ideas will not excite a dinner table in the same way as Oliver Sacks’ Musicophilia, his written style is more engaging and the experience of reading his work more satiating. He also seems to love Paula Abdul, whose songs get more page-time than Mozart. This, of course, is just.


This is Your Brain on Music is available as an Atlantic Books paperback.

5 March 2017

TARP No. 12 – ‘Selected Poems’ by Marina Tsvetaeva

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Who? Marina Tsvetaeva, Russian emigre poet with buckets of charisma, one of the Big Four of her day (easily matching her peers Anna Akhmatova, Osip Mandelstam and Boris ‘Dr. Zhivago’ Pasternak), appearing in translation by Elaine Feinstein.


What? Fifty-odd poems on her fellow poets, break-ups, the bourgeoisie, Ophelia and the Pied Piper, all balancing her rich lyricism and emotional honesty.


When? The collection draws from her pre-Revolution juvenilia to the final, refusal-laden period (see her distressed Poems to Czechoslovakia) approaching her return to the Soviet Union in 1939. It took two years of state pressure to provoke her suicide.


How? Feinstein commits to a nuanced translation of Tsvetaeva’s idiomatic style, without attempting (thank God) to re-render Tsvetaeva’s strict meter and rhyme.


Why? Tsvetaeva, as I’ve mentioned, is an extremely charismatic figure. Her work, like Akhmatova’s, is forceful, driven by passion, skirting on the right side of the intellectual, and wise. The esotericism that peeks through the verse is well-justified; unlike other Russian poetry, Tsvetaeva’s imagery is still grounded in the emotional world. This inner-reflection, perhaps linked with the strength of her personality, at times overwhelms. Every line is a drop into the pool of her raw and open emotions, and in this, it is difficult to separate her biography from her work, and so to distance ourselves from her pain as we read. Perhaps, I have missed the point, or chosen to.


Marina Tsvetaeva: Selected Poems is available as a Carcanet paperback, edited, translated and introduced by Elaine Feinstein.

28 February 2017, Pancake Day

TARP No. 11 – ‘A Romance with Cocaine’ by M. Ageyev

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Who? M. Ageyev, pseudonym for Russian émigré writer Mark Levi (once thought to be fellow émigré Vladimir Nabokov), a true international man of mystery.


What? A faux memoir of Vadim Maslennikov, a kind of Muscovite Holden Caulfield, with cocaine.


When? 1934, published in a French magazine.


How? Four unevenly-weighted narratives: School (huge, largely superfluous information), Sonya (a banal doomed relationship) , Cocaine (totally near the end) and Thoughts (a poorly-articulated philosophy of drug abuse).


Why? When I first read A Romance with Cocaine, I myself loved the drugs. Not to the extent of the writhing-in-self-loathing Maslennikov, or Burroughs’ Junky, or Hunter S. Thompson, but a beyond-casual interest. I remember Ageyev’s fiction as romantic, panelled with dark wood, chiaroscuro, smoky. Actually, it is dull, as most accounts of drug abuse are, and lacking poetry. The narrator is unlikeable, though consistently-voiced, and the characters that surround him are largely one-dimensional. It was an absurd scholarly error for A Romance ever to be linked with Nabokov, who even in his juvenilia surpasses the imagery of Ageyev. Since the book has remained the same since my last reading, I can only assume that I, for better or worse, have been altered.


A Romance with Cocaine is available as a Hesperus Modern Voices paperback, in translation by the legendary Hugh Alpin.

19 February 2017

TARP No. 10 – ‘Newton’s Swing’ by Chris Paling

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Who? Chris Paling, contemporary author and resident Brightonian.


What? A cold crime thriller.


When? Around the millennium.


How? A loose, time-hopping meander through the central mystery: who killed Susan?


Why? Or rather, how to review a book where you might, quite feasibly, bump into the author and have to discuss at further length the critique you have provided? The simple answer is, for now, you do not. Until I work out the etiquette.


Newton’s Swing is available as a Vintage paperback. His latest, Reading Allowed (a collection of library-centred vignettes), has just been released as a Constable hardback.

13 February 2017

TARP No. 9 – ‘The Complete Cosmicomics’ by Italo Calvino

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Who? Italo Calvino, later king of meta.


What? An anthology of his 30-odd odd science fiction shorts, following an omnipresent narrator (‘Qfwfq’) through the various manifestations of his eternal being: a sea-snail, a molecule, a dinosaur, etc.


When? Compiled in 2010, featuring stories from 1965 hence.


How? Moving slowly through unconnected histories, each indicative of Calvino’s far-reaching, pseudo-scientific Cosmicomic voice, blending in and out of focus.


Why? I picked up the Cosmicomics in a bookshop in Verona; I literally picked it up and was about to walk out of the door without paying, but bottled it. This was fortunate; I am not built for shoplifting. The stories within encapsulate this story, as well as all the other insignificant stories of the universe as it played out now and will play out in the future. Time here is non-linear and of little importance. Of more importance is the reflection of human experience Calvino lays over every neutron and proton; the Cosmicomics show us at once our complete insignificance, whilst placing us, invisibly, at the centre. The Cosmicomics are ambitious, falling just short of the truly funny, but much more readable than Calvino’s meta-work.


The Complete Cosmicomics is available as a Penguin Modern Classics paperback.

12 February 2017

TARP No. 8 – ‘The Futurist Cookbook’ by F.T. Marinetti

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Who? Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, a twentieth century Italian art champ who loved aeroplanes and hated pasta.


What? A cookbook in the first; a violent, avant-garde, super-nationalist manifesto of total social overhaul in the second.


When? 1932, during the second wave of Italian Futurism.


How? In a collection of suggested menus, food dioramas and restaurant scenes, critical essays, diatribes, nationalist rants, neologisms, faux-history, photographs.


Why? Why indeed read Marinetti at all? His work, going back to the first Futurist manifesto of 1909, is scarred with an obsessive love of technology and speed, nationalist tendencies, misogyny, xenophobia and violent revolutionary motifs. At the same time, he is a master of the evocative and energetic, the ultra-progressive, the ecstasy of a sentence overflowing with passionate imagery. These are two sides of the same coin. Marinetti is evocative because he is overly-evangelical; energised by his Fascism; unabatingly forward-thinking (if misguided); a mind which has tied art and life so inextricably that there is no difference between the abolition of old artistic ideals and the physical destruction of a political enemy. His ideas are hyper-extensions of his palette; in his work is contained the moral, the amoral, the immoral and, in the Cookbook, dates stuffed with anchovies wrapped in ham and served with ice-cream. It should be read as nonsense, like most Fascist literature, but, regardless, with joy. Do not attempt to cook the food though. It sounds disgusting.


The Futurist Cookbook is available as a Penguin Modern Classics paperback, in translation by Suzanne Brill, with an afterword by Leslie Chamberlain.

TARP No. 7 – ‘Moscow Tales’ ed. by Helen Constantine

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Who? Anthologised therein, your favourite Muscovites and Muscophiles: Ivan Bunin, Yury Kazakov, Anton Chekhov (x2), Yury Koval, Tatyana Shchepkina-Kupernik, Nikolai Karamzin, Evgeny Grishkovets, Igor Sutyagin, Vladimir Gilyarovsky, Marina Tsvetaeva, Marina Boroditskaya, Ivan Shmelyov, Larisa Miller and Maria Galina, translated by Sasha Dugdale, compiled and edited by Helen Constantine. *Phew*


What? A collection of short stories loosely revolving around Moscow life through the years.


When? Compiled 2013 with stories ranging from late 18th Century to present day.


How? In near-random order, jumping from age to age and voice to voice, with occasionally only the loosest of threads connecting the story to the history, culture or geography of the city. And severely lacking Krzizhanovsky, whose writings on Moscow need a bloody good airing.


Why? Reading Moscow Tales was, for a few weeks, a slow sojourn through some of Russia’s least evocative writers: especially in Ivan Bunin, who I would like to love, but don’t. Chekhov’s Kashtanka was a highlight, due its talking dog, and Karamzin’s famous Poor Liza still holds a certain sentimental charm, but otherwise, I was fairly dulled. Then, towards the end of the anthology: a chink of glorious light. The extract from Marina Tsvetaeva’s My Pushkin, a memoir of the author’s relationship with the Pushkin Memorial in Moscow, is vividly pictured, personable yet avant-garde, and full of emotional honesty. Her colourful polemic on the joy she drew from Pushkin’s blackness (the poet’s great grandfather was an Afro-Russian circa 17th Century) is especially inspiring. This piece, as well as Tsvetaeva’s poetry, is ecstatically worth reading, even if surrounded by the grey drapes of Bunin and others.


Moscow Tales is available as an Oxford University Press paperback.

24 January 2017